


vodka

by disagio



Category: The Queen's Gambit (TV)
Genre: (I'm sorry Mrs. Borgov), Age Difference, Blow Jobs, During Canon, Everyone but them knows really, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Infidelity, Luchenko knows, Older Man/Younger Woman, Post-Canon, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:42:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28697145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disagio/pseuds/disagio
Summary: All the times that Elizabeth Harmon was offered vodka in Moscow.
Relationships: Vasily Borgov/Beth Harmon
Comments: 22
Kudos: 88





	vodka

**Author's Note:**

> Another work for the [14th Italian P0rn Fest](https://www.landedifandom.net/pf14-main). If you have an account on [Lande di fandom](https://www.landedifandom.net/) (and understand Italian), you can check it out in the original language [here](https://www.landedifandom.net/pf14-main/#comment-5462).  
>   
> This prompt was hard. And it hit me like a truck, honestly.  
> It was very fun to write, but also very tiresome. I hope you enjoyed it as I did.  
> (I'm still bad at p0rn, but I really tried.)

“Vodka?”

It was the Russian Grandmaster seated on her left — whose name she could not remember — who offered her it. Beth swallowed, instinctively covering her glass with her hand. “No, thank you,” she whispered with a soft smile, and, although surprised, he didn’t insist and put the bottle back on the table.

The dinner celebrating the end of the Moscow Invitational was a somber affair, almost solemn. If at the opening the atmosphere was cheery and convivial, where players and families mingled and bantered from one end of the table to the other, this reception was listless in comparison: only the Grandmasters were invited, no wives or companions of any sort, and silence reigned supreme, broken by the occasional clinking of cutleries and glasses. Placed at the head of the table, Beth knew that this less than festive atmosphere was her doing: she had defeated the crème de la crème of the Soviet chess school on a worldwide broadcast, just a few hours prior. The only thing she could do now was sit there and calmly eat all the typical dishes the waiters brought her. Her Russian was a little rusty so she didn’t try starting a discussion with the people around her, unlike Luchenko, who was having a hushed conversation with the person in front of him. Moreover, she didn’t remember who the man seated to her left was and, to her right, there was Vasily Borgov.

The World Champion was as stiff as an ice statue, so tense that if someone brushed him by mistake he would probably snap, his stare focused on the solyanka he still had to finish. He had looked at her only once — when he had waited for her to sit before doing the same — and while he tried his best to appear unperturbed, she had seen disappointment in his clear eyes. Sure, he had flashed her a smile while offering his king, when he understood there was no way of drawing the game with perpetual checks, and he had also applauded her alongside the ecstatic audience, but that didn’t mean he was _truly_ happy. No one better than her knew how frustrating it is to lose, and how hard it is to recognize that your opponent is simply better than you.

In conclusion, she was probably the last person in the world he wanted to deal with, right now.

Beth was okay with that, especially since her treacherous mind kept replaying the moment when Borgov hugged her, and the memory of his warm body made her nervous. She could still feel his arms wrapped around her, surprisingly muscular, and how his hands caressed her hips; she remembered his accelerated pulse, specular to hers, and the smell of his cologne. But more than anything else, the precise moment where his thin lips had brushed her lobe — while he had whispered _pozdravleniya_ , congratulations — was forever fixed in her mind; the spot where his mouth touched her was still flushed to this very second.

Physical contact with a man, intimate even, didn’t scare her: she usually was the instigator, stroking hair or sensually moving her hips, and she had always enjoyed the power she had on them, reveling in how they surrender to the flames of desire she had carefully stoked. However, Borgov was different. Perhaps because she hadn’t even thought of him as completely human. His play style, so cold and calculated, did not leave room to any sort of creativity, and she lost count of how many times she just didn’t finish analyzing his games: sure, he was impeccable, but he was utterly boring. His face, always devoid of any emotion, and his dark suits didn’t help him shake off the image of a feelingless computer that the twin instilled in her, all those years ago in Mexico.

That was why that hug threw her off so much: Vasily Borgov was a man, made of flesh and blood, exactly like her.

When the waiters brought out the last course, the man on her left offered a drink again, a courteous smile on his lips. Beth shook her head — she didn’t want to drink, she was terrified by the thought that just a drop of alcohol was enough to make her relapse, and this time she would not be able to crawl out of that abyss — but the Grandmaster wasn’t willing to listen to her. “It’s for celebrating your victory, Miss Harmon! Just a toast!” He insisted, without any ill intent, trying to convince her to take a sip. She was about to concede, _just a sip_ probably wouldn’t be as catastrophic as she feared, when Borgov decided to intervene. “Miss Harmon does not wish to drink, Kolya. Stop bothering her.” His powerful voice, resonating in the absolute silence of the dining room, made everyone turn in their direction. Elizabeth grabbed the hem of her dress to vent her nervousness, and took a generous swig of water to hide her face, flushed with embarrassment for the unpleasant situation unfolding. However, Vasily Borgov seemed not to notice that everybody was watching him: he calmly took the bottle from the hands of his compatriot, pouring himself a glass. “To Elizabeth Harmon and her magnificent victory,” looking her straight in the eyes, he raised it in her direction. “May this be the start of a dazzling career.” Soon they all joined, imitating the World Champion.

Beth lowered her head at his words, humbled, but her eyes stayed on Borgov: she followed closely the hypnotic movement of his Adam’s apple when he gulped down the vodka, and she swallowed as well, her cheeks blushing.

In that precise moment, Elizabeth Harmon knew she was fucked.

“With the compliments of the gentleman at the counter.”

It was a young waiter — twenty years old at most, blonde and with washed out eyes — who was offering her a glass. Beth raised her eyes from her worn out copy of Capablanca’s _My Chess Career_ and recognized immediately the vodka.

She had just got back from her walk, after hours and hours of carefree play with the elderly men she had observed during the Invitational, her heart full of childish glee: playing chess with them was a return to her origins, she was once again that young girl in the orphanage’s basement who found fascinating those pieces and how they moved on the chessboard, creating almost magical combinations; the competitive side of chess, the one that pushed her almost too far, disappeared for a whole afternoon, leaving in its wake pure and genuine joy. When she had returned to the hotel, she had retrieved her old book and sat on one of the comfortable sofas next to the bar, enjoying the oddly soothing chatter in the background.

Beth turned around and saw a young soldier in uniform raising his glass in her direction. “Flattered, but I don’t drink,” she told the waiter, and return to her book. However, the soldier didn’t see that as a refusal and he soon walked up to her with a glass of water. She did take up this offer, making him sit next to her. 

Beth didn’t have a “type” of men she liked, but his pale blue eyes — almost gray — were the thing she liked the most. To her delight, she found out that he was also charming and witty, and Beth was about to place a hand on his thigh — letting him know what her plans for the night were — when she felt Vasily Borgov’s eyes on her: she didn’t need to turn around, only him could make her stop breathing for a moment.

“Miss Harmon, I was looking for you,” her suspicion was confirmed when the World Champion appeared in front of them, a gentle smile curving his lips. “I’m here because Luchenko wanted to invite you at the party he’ll held at his house tonight to celebrate the end of the Invitational.” 

“I thought we did that yesterday,” she raised an eyebrow, now more than ever hyperaware of the arm of the soldier, casually resting on the backrest, that could slip on her shoulders any second.

“That was the official dinner, very rigid and boring, if you ask me. This will be a more intimate occasion: there will be drinks, we’ll probably play and I’m sure Lev will mock me relentlessly for my defeat…” and he would have continued but the soldier cut in. “I’m sorry, _tovarish_ Borgov, but the lady has plans with me tonight,” he grinned, waiting for her approval.

Beth looked at them both and, in all honesty, it was not a difficult choice. “Can’t wait to hear what Luchenko will say about you.”

“Welcome, welcome! Please, give me the coat, my dear! Would you like something to drink? Vodka, cognac? I do have some wine, if you prefer…”

Luchenko had raised an eyebrow when he had seen her in the freezing landing. He gave Borgov a weird look, but soon enough a smile blossomed on his face and he ushered them inside. He helped her ease out of her cashmere jacket and accompanied them into the small living room, where the other Russian Grandmasters were, laughing at some joke she didn’t hear. When they saw her entering the room they all looked confused, but seeing Borgov with her made them all grin, and they welcomed her wholeheartedly.

“I’m happy Vasya found you. It would have been a shame if you left without experiencing the true Russian hospitality,” Luchenko smiled, offering her a hot cup of tea. Beth drank it slowly while listening to the others’ chatter: they were talking about their families and things that had happened before the Invitational; it was obvious they knew each other outside of the tournament halls, and hearing about their small personal problems was a very weird experience. However, soon the discussion turned to chess and it didn’t take long before they invited her to play some blitz games. In contrast to her games with Benny — full of tension and the desire to one-up one another, going as far as petty paybacks — these were relaxed, not at all different from the ones she had played a few hours ago: sure, she was up against the best of the Soviet chess school, but the atmosphere was easy and laughter abundant; it didn’t matter if her adversary was an old man, whose gentle eyes reminded her of Mr. Shaibel’s, or Laev, Beth was having fun. She _almost_ didn’t care about winning. And, to her big surprise, she found out that Borgov was _atrocious_ at blitz: he was very tense, and it was apparent how hard was for him to find the optimal move in a few seconds; he often ended up blundering not to lose on time, and Beth mercilessly punished him, making him scowl more.

“I think it’s enough, my dear: you have thoroughly destroyed Vasya’s self-confidence,” Luchenko stepped in after her fifth consecutive win, while a very flustered World Champion loosened his tie and served himself a shot of vodka. “Would you like to play Hand and Brain?” 

“I don’t know what that is.”

“It’s rather simple: you play in a team of two, one is the Brain and the other the Hand; the Brain says the piece, knight for example, but cannot say which or where to move it. The Hand has to move said piece, to his or her discretion,” he explained briefly. “Why don’t we try it? You could play with Vasya, you know, to improve his mood.” Beth didn’t comment on Lev’s amused smile and sat on the couch, between Laev and Borgov. In the warm living room, the scent of his cologne was even more intoxicating than when she had rested her head on his shoulder, less than 24 hours ago.

She really tried concentrating on the game, sandwiched between the two men, but it wasn’t easy because the Grandmasters kept joking among themselves and, more importantly, Borgov often had to whisper in her ear the piece to move, since she couldn’t hear him over the laughter. In an attempt to leave her more space on the couch, the World Champion had placed his arm on the backrest, but in doing so, every time he had to lean in to repeat the name of the piece, his nose brushed her temple and his lips her already flushed lobe. “Don’t cheat, Vasya! You can’t tell her where to move!” Luchenko laughed, but the truth was that they didn’t need to cheat: she knew exactly what Borgov wanted from her; despite their very different play styles, she could see his plan as if she could read it on paper. Every time he said a piece, she immediately blitzed out the move, and this perfect harmony between their minds made her smile brighter and brighter. She was almost in a trance: the only things that existed, in that precise moment, were the chessboard, with the attack they were preparing, and Borgov’s voice guiding her.

Their victory was sure, but Luchenko and Shapkin tried to delay the inevitable with all their strengths. In the end, their desperate defense was futile and they had to concede defeat, laughing and congratulating the winners. Beth raised her eyes to meet Borgov’s — who was looking at her with the same pride she had seen at the end of their game at the Invitational — and she immediately forgot what she wanted to say; he was the one to lean in, while the others were analyzing this game, whispering into her ear _ya toboi gorzhus’_ , I’m proud of you.

The soft smile on his face left her speechless for quite some time.

“Would you like some, Miss Harmon?”

Now it was Borgov who offered her the bottle of vodka, seated at Luchenko kitchen’s table. After their game, they had played some more rounds, but they soon switched back to classic chess and Borgov had excused himself after one last joke with Laev; Beth had followed him right after to refill her glass with water, pointedly ignoring Luchenko’s stare on her back.

The sound of the door closing behind her made Borgov look up from his empty glass. “Please, don’t stand there. Have a seat!” When she refused his first offer, he pointed at the chair next to him while pouring himself another shot.

“Don’t call me ‘Miss Harmon’, Mr. Borgov. It’s Beth, or Liza, if you prefer,” she told him, while taking up that second offer.

“Oh, no,” he smiled. “Have mercy on me, no ‘Mr. Borgov’. Don’t make me feel older than I already am.”

That sentence was as if someone poured ice-cold water on her.

Of course she knew that Borgov was 18 years her senior, but hearing _him_ say that reminded her of how stupid she was: Vasily had a nice family, a whole life here in the Soviet Union, whichever foolish idea she got in these last 24 hours was a stupid desire, born out of the joy from her victory. She had centered her whole life on defeating him, all of her sacrifices had led her to Moscow, and now that she had achieved it, she was probably losing her mind a little. She was misinterpreting everything, all their latest interactions didn’t mean anything to him.

“So, Vasily?” She breathed out, trying to keep her face as blank as possible.

“Or Vasya, it’s up to you,” after he drank that shot as well, he looked at her and Beth feared he would see straight through her poker face: Borgov had always been able to read her perfectly, his ice blue eyes piercing her soul. She looked away, turning around to grab a carafe of water on the counter behind her with trembling hands, afraid that he already understood what she was thinking about.

“I’m sorry I ruined your night with that young man,” he whispered instead, breaking the silence, while he took off his grey tie and unfastened the first two button of his shirt. Beth followed closely the movement of his fingers and studied the profile of his neck, now free from the stiff collar.

She shook her head. “Oh, I should actually thank you, I had a great time tonight,” and she was supposed to end the sentence like that, but since he was looking at her, she added “And I’m sure I would have regretted it the morning after. I always want the wrong man, for one reason or another.”

The World Champion stared at her as if she had suddenly grown a second head while Beth bit her lower lip, recognizing how damning her last sentence was and desperately wishing to take it back. Borgov spoke first, after a minute or so of stunned silence. “Liza, I’m a married man.”

“I know,” she admitted. “As I said, the wrong man, for one reason or another.”

At least, now that all the cards were on the table, Beth could look up to the next day with a shimmer of hope: yes, she had humiliated herself by confessing she was attracted to a married man almost twice her age, but soon this too would pass and one day she would laugh at the memory. Maybe Benny was still up for some casual sex, who knew, perhaps she could call him in the morning and stay some time in New York when she came back…

She had just got up, determined to leave with a shred of her dignity intact, when Borgov spoke again. “Me too,” he murmured, deflated, and since she was staring at him confused by what he said, he continued, “I want a woman I shouldn’t, Liza.” 

There was nothing more to say. Nobody said anything when Beth announced she wanted to go back to her hotel and Borgov volunteered to accompany her; Elizabeth didn’t say anything when she saw Vasily take off his wedding ring and put it in the internal pocket of his jacket.

The bottle of vodka she ordered at the reception, before going up to her room, was promptly forgotten outside.

As soon as Beth closed the door behind her, Borgov was kissing her senseless. She could feel, in how he moved his lips against hers and in the way he touched her from above the jacket, all his desperation: this was probably their first and last time and he didn’t want to waste any second. However, Vasily tasted like alcohol, and that made her nose wrinkle.

“Do you want me to brush my teeth?” He asked her, short of breath; he had understood, as always, what was going on in her head. Beth beamed at that inherently considerate question, shaking her head. “No, Vasya, I want you to kiss me and take off your clothes,” she said while trying to unbutton his heavy coat.

He smiled, one of the most beautiful and radiant smile she had ever seen, but he gave her a quick peck on the lips. “I have to go to the bathroom, wait here and don’t move,” he murmured against her mouth before leaving. The moment the bathroom door closed, Beth ignored his request and marched towards the bed, undressing as fast as she could; when Borgov came back, a few minutes later, just in his shirt and trousers and with the rest of his clothes under his arm, he stopped dead in his track when he spotted her in lingerie, lying languidly on the mattress.

“I thought I said to wait,” he pointed out, carefully laying his clothes on an armchair, but his eyes never left her body: he was carefully studying her lacy underwear — one of her favorites, bought in Paris —as if it was a position on the board. Beth laughed and rose to her knees, her hands flying to his belt. “I didn’t want to wait around…” She replied, unfastening it and moving on to his trousers’ button.

Borgov didn’t retort, he just watched her lower the zip, caressing her hair. When Beth pulled down his pants to his knees, she found out that Vasily Borgov wore plain white boxers: they were so _normal_ , simple and without any frills, so in his style, that she cackled. “What’s so funny?” He asked, utterly confused by her sudden laughter, and his expression forced her to cover her mouth with a hand while she tried to calm down.

“Nothing, Vasya,” she told him, when her shoulders stopped quaking and her breathing went back to normal. “I’m just happy, that’s all.” At that, Borgov couldn’t hold back a soft smile and his usually stern features softened; he could have replied with a sappy confession that would made her quite uncomfortable, but Vasily bent down and kissed her again, cupping her cheeks with his hands. Now, his mouth tasted like toothpaste.

They broke apart just to catch their breath and to allow Borgov to finish undressing, remaining only in his underpants. Only then, Beth grabbed him by his arm and pulled him onto herself; she immediately wrapped her legs around his waist, grinding her sex against his erection, whose outline was perfectly visible through the white boxers. By the sound that escaped his mouth, he seemed to have choked on his tongue, and he started dry humping her. Soon enough, an impatient Elizabeth came to the conclusion that underwear was the worst invention that mankind had ever conceived, and apparently Borgov agreed with her since he stopped and slipped a hand inside her panties — mumbling something under his breath when he felt how wet she was — making her hold her breath.

Feeling her grew stiff, Vasily kissed her temple and waited for her to relax before calmly dragging his index on the seam of her folds. It didn’t take long before that simple movement wasn’t enough to satisfy the growing desire in her lower belly: Borgov grinned at her impatient huff, his lips on her skin, and slowly pushed his finger inside of her. “Is it okay?” He asked, his voice a hoarse murmur, awaiting for her go ahead. He started pumping only when he saw her nodding, and Beth held onto his large shoulders, turning her head to kiss him.

Soon the fast rhythm of his hand wasn’t enough to please her, so Borgov worked in another finger, with no resistance at all; her spine arched on her own, and Beth stifled a long moan on his tongue. Her gasps became ever more frequent when Borgov, who was clearly very pleased with her reactions, brushed her clitoris with his thumb. Beth dug her nails into his back and bit — not very delicately, she had to admit — his lower lip. Vasily pulled back immediately but didn’t complain, on the contrary, he showered her with kisses: her forehead, the bridge of her nose, her cheeks, everywhere that wasn’t her mouth. She could hear him whispering something in Russian, but she was too far gone to understand it; he kissed on her neck, right behind her ear, and with one last flick of his thumb on her clit, Elizabeth came. The orgasm coursed through her like an electric discharge and the sounds she made were inhuman, but Borgov held her tightly throughout it, murmuring sweet nonsense that she couldn’t comprehend against her temple.

A minute or so later, Beth regained control of her limbs and pushed herself up with her hands, straddling Borgov’s stomach. He looked at her, slowly caressing her hips, and his smug smile almost faltered seeing her on top of him. And with good reason, she mused, now it was _her_ time to have some fun: she started slowly kissing his neck and continued on his pecs — leaving some stains with her crimson lipstick — and down to his navel; with a grin, she took off his boxers, and she stopped her trail of kisses only when she reached his pubic hair to look up at him. In his eyes, she saw the same lust that, although it had been sated just a few minutes prior, was beginning to pool again in her lower belly. She was still staring at him when she first kissed his cock.

Beth did not enjoy giving blow jobs: she saw it as a humiliation, giving away all of her power with nothing in return; most of the times, the man, who was at the receiving end, couldn’t even respect the rhythm she was comfortable with and started pushing into her mouth, making her choke. However, with Vasily it was completely different. Hearing his breath hitch when she trailed with her tongue a bulging vein in his shaft, from the base to the tip, and seeing his fist clutching at the quilt made her feel godlike. Borgov had given himself to her and he depended on her for his pleasure, and there was no more intoxicating realization than that. Beth would never forget the shiver that ran through him when she welcomed him into her mouth, sucking him hard, or how his voice modulated her name, almost with the same tempo as the bobbing of her head. Or how his eyes rolled to the back of his head when she managed to take all of him in one go, the tip of his cock hitting the back of her throat.

Vasily had to grab her by the armpits and forcibly lift her to make her let go of his dick, and Beth was about to protest — she was _having fun_ , thank you very much — when he kissed her hard. It didn’t take long before he methodically stripped her of the lingerie; it took him even less to make her lie down and open her legs. They paused for a second, staring at each other and holding their breath, and then he slowly pushed inside her.

Borgov remained perfectly still when he bottomed out, breathing heavily and with his face pressed on the slope of her neck, and Beth was almost grateful for this little respite: although a part of her wanted him to start moving and fuck her, she still hadn’t wrapped her head around the whole situation. It felt like a dream — she definitely dreamed of something like this after Paris, but she would have never confessed such a thing to a living soul — maybe she fell asleep on the sofa in the hall and nobody bothered to wake her up. However, a quick pinch on her forearm demonstrated that it was all true, and Elizabeth Harmon giggled. Vasily raised her head and looked at her perplexed, but he relaxed as soon as she kissed him, throwing her arms around his neck. When he finally started rocking in and out of her, slowly at first but then picking up the pace, Beth threw her head back and whispered his name. 

They both knew it wouldn’t last long — the young American had to concede that maybe she had pushed him too far with her blow job — but Borgov was determined to make her come again. She could see it in how he frowned, or in how he bit his lower lip while he brought a hand to the apex of her thighs. It was almost a race to see who would last the longest and, for the first time in her life, Beth wanted to lose. However, it was obvious that Vasily would be the first to climax: his thrusts were getting more and more frenzied, and soon after he buried his face in the pillow to muffle a roar. He didn’t move for a minute or so, while she caressed his hair and his back, but when he looked her in eyes she could see he was disappointed. “It’s alright, I don’t—” but Beth couldn’t finish that sentence because he captured her lips in a searing kiss.

“No, Lizoshka, I want to hear you come again,” he declared, dead serious, and the fact that was _Vasily Borgov_ who said that made her blush. He resumed touching her, his mouth trailing down the slope of her neck, and it didn’t take long for her to follow suit, a hoarse scream escaping her mouth.

When she stopped shivering from her orgasm, Beth met his eyes, ice blue and shining. She smiled, mollified and happy, and hugged him tightly before kissing him again.

Several hours later, she lifted her head from his naked chest to kiss him on the jaw.

“Would you like the vodka I had ordered?”

“Pardon?”

“The vodka I had asked for before going up.”

“Oh, no! It’s going to be warm…” a small pause. “I think drinking piss would be much more enjoyable.”

She giggled, interrupted by another kiss.

“Good, I didn’t want to get out of bed anyway,” she whispered, straddling his stomach while masturbating him. “Truth to be told, I never liked vodka.”

Borgov didn’t reply, too concentrated on her hand jerking him off, and Beth leaned in to kiss him, grinning widely.

“ _Sygrayem_.”

**Author's Note:**

> I feel so dirty using _sygrayem_ in this context. I have absolutely no shame.
> 
> Unfortunately, this is my last fiction for a while: I have ignored my real life obligations for as much as I could, but now they're catching up to me and I have to pay them attention.  
> I'll be back by the end of January, tho, I hope to see y'all there.  
>   
> I'll still be active on my Tumblr (empressofdisagio.tumblr.com), where I shitpost about everything. Come and join the discussion about [Borgov's underwear](https://empressofdisagio.tumblr.com/post/639586232139169792/okay-very-important-question-what-kind-of), or whatever dumb question I post. I'd love to have your feedback!


End file.
